


we'll exchange the experience

by therestisdetail



Category: Preacher (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:34:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7433147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why that?” Fiore says. “Why are they doing that?” There are a lot of variables. DeBlanc considers.</p><p>(or; In Which Being A Parent Doesn't Make Sense, Neither Does Texas, Or These Bodies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Angels Watch Turner Classic Movies

Fiore is not good at waiting quietly. DeBlanc does not find this a pressing problem, as neither are humans, and they furnish their accommodations accordingly. He returns his attention to the domicile, dented in transit. Runs his thumb across metal to find smooth, to find where it is not so. It’s easier than looking with the light changing as it does from a flickering screen.

“Why that?” Fiore says. He’s tense, finger on the buttons now that he’s figured which ones of them to press, mouth twisted down at the corners but he hasn’t turned it off yet. “Why are they doing that?”

There are a lot of variables. DeBlanc considers. A discernible pattern has not yet arisen, but it is a common thread in every one of the... stories. Monochrome figures moving together in variations on a theme. He doesn’t have enough variables. Fiore wants to know why they do that.

“Because it’s where their _voices_ come from.” DeBlanc says, firm and certain. That seems right. Voices are very important.

“Right.” Fiore huffs out immediately. “Voices. Knew _that_.”

DeBlanc suspects this conversation is over.

He’s still turning the domicile over in his hands when Fiore switches the television off, cuts the dark-eyed man off mid-sentence. _Of all the gin joints in all th-_

“You didn’t forget it?” Fiore asks, standing his full height, and DeBlanc looks up from the bed. “The song?”

Ah, this.

He won’t sing the song. Never felt right, if It wasn’t around to hear. Unfair. Should have something of It’s own. But humming the tune isn’t a problem and it’s not the first time Fiore has wanted to check. So DeBlanc hums, and Fiore steps forward into the space above, still learning his size. DeBlanc had a quicker time of that.

He sits on DeBlanc’s knees this time, which is a new variable. Splays his legs out on either side. DeBlanc decides the distribution of weight is extremely inefficient, but to say so he’d have to stop, and the tune isn’t done.

Fiore tilts, haphazard, leans in and presses his mouth against DeBlanc’s. It’s more insistent than anything else, but he keeps his mouth closed and just pushes against DeBlanc’s bottom lip, gets bored and drags across to the corner of his mouth.

It’s easy enough for DeBlanc to keeping humming as he does, and this song was always a call home, so maybe it helps.


	2. The Angels Buy Tickets To Moscow

The trunk won't fit through the door, which means someone waits outside, which means that Fiore doesn't have to talk to people. He doesn't know what's taking DeBlanc so long, though. That's irritating. That and the snow.

Still. Doesn't have to talk to people. 

"What took so long?" He says, when DeBlanc returns, but DeBlanc ignores him to stare at the lifeless body on the bench. 

"Fiore." he says. 

"It wasn't my fault!" Fiore's voice hits a higher pitch as he speaks, grating to his own ears. He doesn't like it but he didn't decide to do it so he doesn't know how to decide to stop, another layer to the day's grievances. "How was I supposed to know? Even stopped hurting, 'sposed to be a good thing."

DeBlanc blinks twice, then turns back to the body that was Fiore's. His breath hangs pale in the air before dissipating. After a few moments he steps towards it, tilting the head a little more to the side and adjusting the fur hat down, shadowing the face enough that a casual glance might only see a man resting. He takes the scarf. 

DeBlanc's breath hangs pale before dissipating, and Fiore knows his own does too, but he thinks that maybe it's more with DeBlanc, that the shift of his chest is painted clearer in frozen air. He wonders if that's true. He wonders if he's worn the body for so long that it is growing comfortable, that of the two of them it is his flesh that is remembering more and more of what it should be, fire in the veins and embers in the throat. He wonders if DeBlanc even feels this like he does, if the cold bites him too, if his fingers hurt to curl tight. He only realises he's glaring when DeBlanc's eyes catch his, strangely subdued, so he looks at the ground instead.  

"Come on," DeBlanc says, looping the scarf around Fiore's neck, next to its twin. "The train is leaving soon."

Fiore doubts a second scarf will make a noticeable difference. He grasps the handle of the trunk, accustomed enough with it now to lean in and share the weight. 

On the train, later, DeBlanc waits for him to sit before stepping close and dropping to one knee in front of Fiore, expression intent as he pulls at the metal fastenings on Fiore's clothes, slides them together and up drawing the jacket closed, then turns his attention to the buttons on the coat. "It works better like this," he says, earnest, and he has taken his gloves off, fingers careful.

Presented with an opportunity, Fiore catches his hand. 

DeBlanc raises an eyebrow but he holds still and allows it, and Fiore grips DeBlanc's hand and wrist between both of his own. Testing, and there's warmth there, there is. But his own hands, pulse fresh and not yet an hour old, are even warmer. There is nothing spark-touched and scorched under DeBlanc's skin. Just these bodies. He releases DeBlanc's hand and swallows down on an unexpected ache. 

Wouldn't have been fair, of course. Might have been nice. 

DeBlanc finishes the buttons but he doesn't move to get up. His lips part slightly like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. He breathes in once, deeper than usual. "If it happens again," he says. "I'll wait, Fiore." 

Meaning that Fiore walks in there, alone with- he stares down at DeBlanc, appalled. 

"I told you, it _wasn't my fault_."


End file.
